Mishaps That Shouldn't Exist
by KatxValentine
Summary: Watch as I gradually mess up the plot to Phantom of my own fangirlish will. Revision of MegMichele, ChristineKat and the Gaping Plot-Hole .
1. Things One Shouldn't Wake Up To

So I took a minute and I realized that the former version of this fanfic wasn't up to par with my usual stuff

So I took a minute and I realized that the former version of this fanfic wasn't up to par with my usual stuff. In other words, it's old and, since I was fairly amateur, it wasn't all too good. And I'm switching around who gets stuck as Meg—and I happened to make it my friend Nick just because there was a certain hilarity to making a guy into a chick. Anyway, I own nothing and no one, and I love you all for being patient with me. Oh, wait, I do own myself—and if I owned my pal Nick, that would be creepy. Oh, and the other version of it will be kept up, for reference and so I can look back and be ashamed of myself. Feedback would be _so_ appreciated. Love to all!

Without further ado, let's start the experiment!

XxXxXxXxXx

I'm awake.

I'm awake and this is not my living room.

When I pause, and I glance around, I realize only one thing. I'm surrounded by women, and this is the strangest place I've ever been. I have no honest clue what's going on and—

What is that _ball_ of blatantly luminescent gold lying next to me?

I have to squint, because it's unpleasantly bright, and I swear, in the daintiest little voice, it's snoring. Come on, Kat, pull yourself together, make sense. Focus, or try to focus, either of those two will do. But this…isn't normal. Am I having a dream? Am I having a—

Snore.

MFMFMMF.

What _is _that?! What are _those?!_ It's with a swift, muffled sound that I realize—this is not a dream, I'm being smothered by cleavage. This is real live cleavage. And I can't comprehend why there's candlelight, or why this entire place is filled with a living, breathing organism made up of little girls. I flinch and make a weak squeak of a sound, trying to wake the blob of golden hair and pure, undisputed boob. And then, it wakes.

"God…Kat…the fuck? It's, like, three in the morning…" And the candlelight plays shadows across the room, just enough that I slowly come into realization—this is Meg.

The creature, with the boobs? The ones in my face? This is Meg.

But I can't wrap my head around it. Is this a dream? There are several large beds in what I'll assume is a dormitory, and I'm crammed next to this very pretty blonde girl who looks startlingly like Meg from Phantom of the Opera. Who is referring to me as Kat. Which is my name.

This isn't making sense.

"Meg?"

I'm brave for a second, and I shove at the girl lightly. She makes a muffled sound of annoyance, and I glance down briefly. The room is illuminated like more of a night-light, and I wonder what time it is. Wait, why would I wonder that when it's a dream? Silly Kat.

"I don't _know_ who Meg is, Kat, I'm Nick. Or do you suddenly have the memory of a goldfish?"

Nick. My eyes widen, and I shake 'her' repeatedly. My hands are…very tiny, and I'm wearing a (why can't I breathe? What is this bullshit?) _corset._ Nick. If Nick is Meg, then, something dawns on me—

I glance down, and if I peer into the dark an explosion of dark brown curls trails its way down my front. I toy with them, and my hands shake. And when I touch at my face, I begin to panic.

Meg—or who I assume is Meg—glances at me, and her ink-dark eyes widen. She looks down, then fixes her eyes on me, and I almost shrink into the corner—

"I have…boobs and…you're Christine Daae."

And then, something in me dies inside.


	2. Things I Don't Want to Do

Thank you so much for the reviews

Thank you so much for the reviews. Seriously, I was terrified this idea was going to bottom out, to be honest. However, it's slightly liked and for that I'm horribly thankful. Anyway, I don't own anything and again, thanks for everyone who even skimmed this. I'm eternally grateful. I actually might not follow the plot completely from the old edition of this, but I'm liking where it is so far. Thanks so much!

Onward!

XxXxXxXxXx

My expression can't break from wide-eyed, Daae horror. I won't lie by saying I'm not in complete shock and maybe a little flattered to be… _this._

I can't help but wonder…do I look like Emmy Rossum or Sarah Brightman? I mean, I've got nothing against Sarah Brightman but I don't think I'd mind very much looking like Emmy—

"Kat! I have boobs!" I glance over at 'Meg', who still seems very much enraptured in halfway feeling herself up. "Look at them! –And they're bigger than yours."

Yeah. Definitely Emmy Rossum. –Not that I have anything against you, Emmy. I can't say I'm not a little bothered mine aren't bigger. I mean, as Kat, I've always had considerably…_gifted _cleavage, and now?

I glance down. What time is it? Five in the morning? I'm still half focused on my lack of boob.

Sunlight creeps in idly through under the cracks of what I assume is a dusty door. Nick…or Meg, whichever it may be by this point, is still trying to acclimate to his…or her surroundings. That, or the fact that he's just now realizing he's surrounded by skinny, pretty girls in scantily existent costumes.

"_Enfants!_ Rehearsal! Everyone up, _cet instant!_" I pause, and I stare around tiredly. Seriously, my head is only just attempting to accustom to this time of the morning. I groan, though, and when I do so it comes out with this _gorgeous_ little English tinge to it. I can't help but feel repulsed by the cuteness in my voice.

"Rehearsals?" Nick—or Meg asks, and stares at me in utter confusion. Rehearsals…I'm trying to assess this, slowly, confused, until my companion brings up a much brighter idea than I, "Rehearsals for what? I don't know shit about—…rehears—Hannibal?"

My stomach bottoms out. There's this terrible ache in my gut. _Hannibal._ I feel sick, suddenly. If we're rehearsing Hannibal…then…

…I haven't become a soprano yet.

Pause. Hold that thought.

Why did I just, quite clearly, think the word _I _in Christine's body? This panics me—but definitely not more than the sound of Madame Giry's voice incessantly yowling for my attention.

And then it rouses, like a child lazily waking from a slumber, only it echoes completely in my head, '_My, it's bright in here…_'

I stare up at the ceiling like I'm questioning the voice I _swore_ came from up there. I heard it, only moments ago. It was the sweetest little murmur, the most beautiful little tone, like a skittish kid. I can't help but love it, for some reason, like this warm, tingly…_familial _sensation.

Before I know it, Meg and her gargantuan knockers are shoving me out of bed and it's a massive hurricane of nervous ballerinas. Children of all sizes, red-heads and brunettes and blondes, are fretting about erratically in frantic attempts to get ready.

Meg holds up the costume (is it _even_ a costume?!) and her face breaks out in a wide grin, right from ear to ear as she exclaims, "This is _so cool!"_

I shrivel at the sight of the hardly artful bustier and the pitiful skirt, halfway unwilling to prance around like some cheap whore of a showgirl. I think people have been better covered by a loincloth. Then again, I'm also self conscious, but what female _isn't?_

"_Maintenant! Cette minute! _La Carlotta will be upset if we are not on time!"

….

….

….

…Anyone but Carlotta. _Please._


	3. Things of Instinctual Nature

I am ridiculously happy with how well this one's going over

I am _ridiculously_ happy with how well this one's going over. Thank you so much to everyone who's read this, and thank you, also, to all who are reviewing. I really do adore feedback, nothing makes a writer happier. This puts me in such a better mood than I've been, lately, and I hope to satisfy as this goes on. Now, it's time to get to the actual plot! Oh, and I own nothing. I'm a poor writer who would eventually love to go professional. Heh.

XxXxXxXxXx

By the point that Madame Giry had ushered us all out, I had to remind Nick around five times that there was no way in hell to flirt with the ballerinas—because it might be a little inconspicuous, being that he happened to be _female._ And that kind of thing just didn't fly in the early nineteen-hundreds Paris. And I was trying, really, I was, to act as _Daae _as I could but a Daae wasn't charming and a Kat….well, _was._

"Nick!" I practically yowled, when I'd caught my friend staring at another of the pretty little blonde things that made up the _corps de ballet_, "I-I mean…Meg!"

"_Vite!_ Christine, attention!" I'd realized that in my urgency to hiss at the ballet instructor's 'daughter', I'd probably lost my footing in the ballet that I hadn't done since I was nine or ten. I'd taken pointe as a child, when I was Kat, of course, but now? I was somehow well educated in every motion, despite my obvious idiocy on the subject. And I would be smug about it when I got the chance, surely.

"You should be _focusing!"_ 'Meg' hisses to me, and I glare at her joking chastisement. I'll focus _you_ right up the ass, you—"Think of Me. Focus."

That's right! I have to…sing soon.

Feeling in the guts. Achy sensation. And I didn't notice something until that moment, this terrible, squealing excuse for a sound—

Is that a _hair color?_

La Carlotta, as she perpetually insisted on being called, was belting out high notes that, though impressive, were _extremely_ irritating. As a Kristin Chenoweth fan, and a devout one, at that, I have a pension and adoration for high notes. But to list Kristin in the same category as this _bird_ would be a sin against _mon dieau._

Pause.

"Christine! Attention!"

Did I just think in French?

"And who is that little blonde angel?" I recognize it for a brief second as one of the silly-looking managers. Somehow, I'm not paying anymore attention than I was three seconds ago. And the looks Madame Giry keeps shooting me are anything but praising.

"No one you need to bother yourself with, _monsieur."_ Meg replied, almost heatedly, but didn't miss a step. I have to marvel at the fact that I can't get it right and she's barely even able to stop her leering glances at the other girls, but can _still_ be better than me.

A crash, a chaotic number of crashes, and then, when the silence set in, I did the worst thing possible.

I begin to laugh. At first, it's just a snicker, but soon I'm giggling so hard I'm almost falling out of my tiny bustier and clutching my stomach. My hand keeps shaking, like I want to point _so _bad. Carlotta—and the fear rises in my throat, tasting very much like nausea—stomps over to me and glares through her stripper eyeshadow.

"Do you think ah'um funny, little girl?!" I wipe at my eyes, trying to stop the tears and shake my head. Meg is smarter than me. She knows I can't control myself, she should've stopped me!

"N-N-No, Carlotta, I-I don't think you're—" my sentence dies off. My heart feels weird in my chest. When I look up, in the rafter, I see a pair of intensely green eyes and a shadowed face, a smirk that plays with my feelings worse than any male can.

"For the record, I happen to find you comical." Meg speaks up, and my mouth nearly unhinges as I continue to stare upward. I see a flicker of black, and the face, the beautiful face, is gone. Carlotta makes this sound, this noise that breaks the sound barrier, and screeches at the butterball turkey that is her husband, and the pile of poodle that no one has _ever_ liked.

The panic elevates, and the panicking managers are up in arms. Madame Giry is intensely glaring daggers at Meg and I, and I only smile sweetly as a tiny voice in the back of my mind kicks in, "_Etonnant_, _Mademoiselle, now who will sing?! Oh, this is going somewhere so terrible…"_

"Christine Daae can sing it, sir!"

I almost throw up, then and there.

"Who is her teacher?"

My eyes are wild, wide, my lip nearly trembles. M-Me? What do you want with—

"She does not know his name, _monsieur._" Meg pipes up, and I try to falter a smile her way. She just sighs, and smacks a palm at her forehead.

I step forward, but I feel like someone is controlling my body. There's this sensation similar to the earlier one, the funny, tingly one in my heart. It sits there, fluttering, like an eager, horrid butterfly in a cage.

Everything goes black, the piano starts and, somehow, so do I.

It's like I slip into some kind of coma. I don't pay attention to anything at all but the notes, my voice, my seemingly limitless breathing. Some kind of weird Kat-sense tells me to look up, because there's a surprise there, but I can't control my movements. I keep singing, and singing, until it's done and the managers break into eager applause, grinning way across their lowly faces.

"We have our new soprano!"


End file.
